In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 59: Recovery and the Question They Always Ask

And he left.

The sound of his footsteps trailed down the tunnel like the tail end of a warning, not quite a threat, not quite done echoing. By the time Demien stepped back into the morning air at La Turbie, Sunday had already started pretending it was calm. No wind. Just the low crack of boot studs on concrete and the hollow clink of water bottles dropped into crates.

He didn't say anything when he arrived. Didn't have to. The players knew.

The eleven that started in Lille weren't stretching yet. They were sitting. Most of them, at least.

Plašil had cones already marked. He pointed out positions without waiting for staff. El Fakiri jogged out last, wrapped up tight at the calf, jaw clenched like he was chewing on the memory of every misplaced touch.

Adebayor arrived walking backwards, laughing with Grax about something no one else could hear. Grax didn't laugh back. Just nodded once and kept his head low.

Demien leaned against the railing near the edge of the pitch. No coat. Just sleeves rolled to the elbow and hands in his pockets. Michel came up next to him with a clipboard and the faint smell of bitter coffee.

"Physios say two knocks, nothing deep," Michel said.

Demien didn't ask who.

"They're playing anyway."

Michel didn't argue.

On the far end, Porato was already in the net, barking at Maurice-Belay to "hit it like you mean it." The shot dribbled past him, barely brushing the net. Porato didn't move.

Demien exhaled. Not disappointment. Just processing.

"You're not planning changes?" Michel asked.

"I'm planning accountability," Demien said.

Rothen passed behind them in a hoodie, headphones on. No music playing. Just something to shut out the rest of the world.

"Xabi?" Michel asked.

"In early," Demien said. "Juggling behind the rehab tent."

Of course he was.

No drills today. Just recovery. Light jogging, short passing grids, basic activation. The ones who played ninety moved slower. The ones who didn't moved faster than necessary. Rothen stayed near the sideline most of the time. Giuly argued with Plašil over who ran more kilometers. It didn't matter.

Demien only stepped in once.

Maurice-Belay cut a run too short, expecting a ball that didn't come. Plašil turned away, and the sequence died.

Demien called across the field. "Next second. Not the one you wanted."

No follow-up. Just that.

They got back into shape.

Biancarelli, the backup keeper, shouted louder than any of the players. Every time someone hesitated with a pass, he called it out like it cost a goal. Demien didn't quiet him. The volume wasn't the problem.

On the bench near the halfway line, Grax drank water without swallowing. Just rinsed his mouth and spat it behind his heel. He watched the training, but didn't join in. His boots were tied, but he hadn't moved.

Demien noticed.

He let it sit.

Michel came back with a printout folded in half. "Press requests for PSV. Dutch media want a quote. Club's giving them Stone."

Demien didn't take the paper. Just nodded.

"Good. Let them ask questions they don't want answered."

When the whistle blew to end the session, Demien didn't gather the group. He didn't clap. Just turned away from the pitch and walked toward the shed, one hand reaching into his jacket for nothing in particular.

Michel followed two steps behind.

"They'll talk about rotation again."

"Let them."

"They'll ask why Alonso didn't start."

"He'll start Tuesday."

"You're not going to explain why?"

Demien stopped.

He looked at the pitch, empty now except for two cones still knocked over.

Then at Michel.

"I'm not here to explain my decisions. I'm here to make them."

He walked off again, toward the offices.

Behind him, the players started to leave in pairs. Quiet, slower now. Boots dragging more than clicking.

Grax was the last one out. He looked back once, saw the cones still down, and picked them up.

No one told him to.

And Demien saw it.

The room wasn't hot. Just dry. One of those cheap conference rooms in a sponsor's hospitality wing, half lit by strip lights that flickered when the air conditioning kicked. There were bottled waters with peeling labels and folding chairs that made knees knock together if you didn't sit properly.

Stone was already at the podium when Demien walked in, sleeves rolled, one hand still finishing the last button on his cuff. He didn't pause for the cameras. He didn't give them a smile. He just took the seat and nodded once.

Flashes fired anyway.

"Let's keep it sharp," Stone said. "One question at a time."

The first one was harmless. Dutch press, older guy, soft tone.

"Coach Laurent, your side seemed... subdued in Lille. Will there be changes for Eindhoven?"

Demien didn't shift. "Lille was a lesson. Tuesday is a test. Not every lesson shows up on the scoresheet."

A few nods. One raised brow.

Second question, French reporter with too-tight tie.

"Alonso didn't start. Giuly only came on late. Are you protecting the internationals, or punishing them?"

Demien let the silence sit. Then he leaned in a little.

"If I wanted to protect them, I'd leave them on the plane. If I wanted to punish them, I'd let them read your articles."

Soft laughter. Stone didn't even look up. He just scribbled something onto his copy of the lineup sheet.

The third question came with a longer wind-up. A younger journalist from Nice-Matin, nervous, but pressing.

"Your midfield has rotated often. Zikos, Cissé, Alonso, Plašil. Are you still figuring out your strongest three?"

Demien tilted his head slightly.

"I'm not picking names. I'm picking actions. The ones who show they can move the ball and move without it—those are the ones who start."

"But—"

"No but," Demien cut. "Football is rhythm. If your tempo's right, I don't care whose name is on the back."

The room fell still for a beat. The older journalists knew better than to jump into that quiet too fast.

A Dutch reporter filled it.

"PSV's home record is strong in Europe. Are you aiming for a draw?"

Demien looked at him properly for the first time.

"I prepare to score. You can write that down."

Another reporter, clearly from the Dutch side, tried again.

"Is this your first Champions League match as a head coach?"

Demien nodded.

"First one, yes. I'm trying to act surprised."

That pulled more laughter this time. Not from everyone. Just enough.

Stone checked his watch. "Last two."

A hand shot up in the back. No mic needed.

"Will Alonso and D'Alessandro start together?"

Demien's answer was slower this time. Not paused, just deliberate.

"It depends who remembers what we trained. We don't reward talent. We reward memory."

Stone pointed to the final hand—local French press again.

"Coach, what defines a good Champions League debut?"

Demien didn't blink.

"Silence at full-time."

He stood before Stone could close it out. Walked off without another word, letting the camera shutters chase his back.

Stone stayed behind to shake hands. Giuly was waiting outside the door, arms folded.

"Nice line," he said.

Demien looked at him.

"Which one?"

"The silence one."

Demien smirked.

"I was talking about you."

And walked past, into the corridor that led to training